'Postman Pat and the 1980s Time Warp'

The Have Our Cake and Eat It Union, on strike for the 32nd Xmas running

Pat sat drinking tea with his cat Jess on his lap in Mrs. Miggins' living room. He was taking his usual thirteenth break of the morning as, of course, part of his job as a postman was to chat with all the people in Glendale.

'Well, Pat', Mrs. Miggins said, passing him another slice of carrot cake, 'I expect you'll be wanting to get back on your rounds soon'. 'I suppose so', he replied, yawning and stretching before taking Jess out to his van, and soon they were merrily driving through the countryside to make the next delivery - a tiny parcel of Devon cream for Miss Kittywitty in Tweetown. 'This will take another two hours, Jess', Pat said, humming along to the song on the radio, which went:

'Postman Pat, Postman Pat, Postman Pat's not a commie prat ... oh no no no no no, striking like the 80s, rom pom pom pom pom pom pom pom, er, pom', and after two hours driving at 30 miles per hour they finally arrived at Miss Kittwitty's cottage. 'Afternoon, Pat', she said, as he got out of his van, 'come in and have an 8-course lunch to keep you going.' 'Thanks', he replied, and they all went indoors.

'You know, Pat', she said, topping up his cup of tea, 'I was reading this science fiction story today, it was amazing stuff!' 'Really?' 'Oh yes. It's set way in the future, and you won't believe this, but people in it have electronic mail and portable telephones, and even little machines so they can talk with one another on video screens!' 'Those writers have far-fetched imaginations, Miss Kittywitty, if that was all true, why, us postmen would soon be out of a job!'

'Well, it was only a story, Pat.' 'Thank heavens, and thank heavens it's still the 1980s.' 'Yes.' 'Where people like me think they're indispensable to the nation, carrying out an essential job without which the country would grind to a halt. And think they can take what they think is dramatic strike action every year without fail as Christmas approaches.' 'In the story, Pat, the few posties left also go on strike.' 'What happens?'

'Nobody notices, as the people all use electronic mail and phones and video machines anyway. It would be about as relevant for carrier pigeons to go on strike!' 'Ha ha ha!' 'Ho ho ho!' 'Hee hee hee!', and the two settled down to a nice long game of Scrabble. 'The book also suggests that in the future postmen will be seen as having a dream-come-true easy job that anyone could do, and get paid very well for it.' 'So there would be no reason for them to strike any more, Miss Kittywitty?'

'Of course not! Why, it would be an almost suicidal thing for them to do. The country already hardly needs them, and any dolenik can do their job at Christmas, the Royal Mail would lose millions in business to other forms of communication if they went on strike!' 'Lucky it's only a story, then.' 'Yes, Pat, only a story. More tea?'

After a nice long snooze after the lunch, Pat set off to make his next delivery of an Ardros catalogue to the village of Skiverton. 'Imagine getting paid to drive around and eat and drink all day, Jess', he said, 'maybe we should go on strike - to demand less pay and longer hours! This is so easy it's embarrassing to call it work!' And on the radio another song began playing, 'Do They Know It's Christmas?' by Fraud Aid:

'It's Christmas time, we know that we're overpaidAt Christmas time, you know your post will be delayed

And in our world of plenty you bet we smile with joyWe'll go on strike again at Christmas time

But say a prayer, pray for unemployed onesAt Christmas time it's hard for them, but we're sure having fun

There's a world of phones and emailsThings that we should fear

Where the people's one reactionIs the bitter sting of sneers

And the overweight deliverers, our day can end at noonWell tonight we're glad we're posties and not you

And there won't be work in sorting centres this Christmas timeThe usual gift we'll get is just our jobs

Where work is done real slowBut lots of tea does flow

We've made sure it's Christmas strikes again

Here's to usWith our feet on the mantelpiece

Here's to usOn double time shifts again

We've made sure it's Christmas strikes again

Sack the posties, let them know they do f*** allSack the posties, let them know they do f*** allSack the posties, let them know they do f*** allSack the posties, let them know they do f*** all'